


Off the Clock

by Anonymous



Series: Soulmate AU [2]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Backstory, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Canon, Racism, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24978013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The Kevin Cozner/Raymond Holt soulmate AU backstory.
Relationships: Kevin Cozner/Ray Holt
Series: Soulmate AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1809388
Comments: 4
Kudos: 72
Collections: Anonymous





	Off the Clock

He was not going to resume his search immediately. Raymond came to this decision while sitting at the breakfast table as his now ex-boyfriend rummaged around the apartment, collecting a few last items that had been left behind during his first hasty exit. 

After all, the entire wretched affair with Frederick had been a result of desperately trying to get back on the horse, as it were, after that fateful fight with Robert that had led to Raymond tackling the problem on his arm with vigor born from righteous anger. When he had suddenly arrived at a slightly different solution than all other times before, one that was not the golden number imprinted on the lighter skin on the inside of Robert’s right forearm, Raymond had been stunned. He had not expected it and in the moment, he was unable to determine whether he was horrified or relieved. Later that night, he had sat down with Robert, both calm and rational, and they had done the math together, then phoned one of Robert’s professors for confirmation.

Once the correct result had been verified by outside sources, Robert and Raymond had looked each other in the eye, shaken hands, and separated, the anger of their previous row completely forgotten. 

His eight years with Robert had been pleasant, Raymond thought, the last year with Frederick… turbulent.

 _Are you sure about that white boy?_ Debbie’s question to him after first meeting Frederick somehow still rang in his ears. _I mean, yeah, he’s hot. Plus, a girl can always use a good OBGYN, but he seems a little spicy for you._

No, he had not been sure. How could he? Frederick’s soulmark was a question mark. A question mark! But now that it was over, Raymond could admit that perhaps this very uncertainty had been what had attracted him to the unreliable med student with a regrettable preference for weak-beaked wooden ducks in the first place.

***

When Raymond announced his plan to focus on his career for the next few months at Sunday dinner with his family, his sister actually screamed.

“Oh my God, Ray, are you saying you’re going to have fun for a little while?”

“No, as I said, I will focus on my career.”

Debbie gave him an incredulous look. “You’re not going to date at all? That seems like a waste! Why not find another Freddy? There’s no way he wasn’t fun.”

Raymond could feel his mother’s eyes on him. She was silently watching him over her plate of pot roast and mashed potatoes. Her opinion of Frederick had been quite clear from the start. 

He cleared his throat. “Frederick and I were not meant to be together,” he said. “However, I do think the relationship taught me some valuable lessons.” Never trust a man with a penchant for weak beaks, for example. “While I do still want to find the person who is most compatible with me, I think I need to reexamine my approach. A break from actively searching might help me develop new strategies. In the meantime, I want to advance my career.”

“I approve of this plan,” his mother offered finally. “You would do well to remember that there is more to life than romance, too, Debbie.”

Predictably, his sister rolled her eyes. 

“I know society puts a lot of pressure on you young people to go out and find your so-called soulmate,” their mother sighed.

“Ugh, I know you never cared and daddy never cared and then, one day, he just showed up at your house because grandma twisted her ankle on her way back from the grocery store and he drove her home. We can’t all be so lucky, Mom. I just read an article about this lady who didn’t find her soulmate until she was seventy-three and then he had a heart-attack a year later! I don’t want to be a wrinkly old biddy by the time I find him!”

Raymond exchanged a glance with his mother. They were both thinking the same thing: This again.

Also, he thought, their parents could hardly be considered lucky. They had had a mere decade together, before his father’s sudden and untimely death. Of course, all things were relative and many people did not even get that much.

Perhaps this was why his sister flew into dramatics whenever the topic was broached. 

Despite understanding the value of self-reflection, Raymond did not indulge in it too frequently. He did suspect, however, that his father’s early demise had influenced his own decision, at the ripe old age of eighteen, to have his soulmark published in a national paper. One never knew how much time one had left, it would not do to waste it.

Since there were currently only two major ambitions in his life, namely excelling as a detective in order to rise through the ranks of the NYPD and forming a mutually beneficial relationship with his soulmate, Raymond allocated his time accordingly. He worked as many shifts as he could and what little spare time he had, he had tried to spend meaningfully first with Robert, then Frederick.

Now, however, he was back to square one. When he had found himself in this situation after Robert, he had decided to use his detective skills, to handle the search for his soulmate like a case. On his days off, he had scoured the city, visiting museums and concerts during the day and certain bars at night. His soulmate, he figured, would share his general interests and therefore should frequent similar places Raymond would. There, he asked around, inspected various soulmarks presented to him by hopeful young men and told people that he was looking for a man with a number on his arm.

“Maybe try a holocaust survivor,” some racist imbecile had laughed one night. Raymond had taken the abuse the way he always did, face granite, hands curled into loose fists.

“You want 69?” Someone else had asked, winking. “We’ve all been there, babe. Personally, I’m still searching for BJ!”

It was fine. If people laughed at him, they would also talk about him, raising chances that the right man might overhear.

After a week of this, Frederick had approached him and although Raymond had in no way been convinced by his logic - _When I look at your mark, this is what I think and feel_ , he had said, tracing the question mark on his forearm with his index finger - there had been something so deliciously novel about being pursued in this very straightforward manner that had made it difficult to resist. Also, Raymond had been somewhat inebriated at the time, not to mention deeply frustrated with his search. 

Reminiscing was making him wistful. There had been moments during the relationship when he really had thought Frederick might be his soulmate, as delusional as that had turned out to be. 

Suppressing a sigh, Raymond brought a forkful of mashed potatoes to his mouth. As always, eating his mother’s food was comforting, as was sitting at her dinner table. But then he glanced over at the empty chair next to her and felt a pang of longing in his chest, wondering what his father might have said to this conversation.

“Anyway,” Debbie went on, “there’s this travel agency in SoHo that has great packages for searchers under thirty! I talked to a girl there and she made me an offer for a trip to Africa that is really a steal when you think about it!”

“Africa?” their mother asked, eyebrows rising in disbelief. She caught Raymond’s eye again and he could instantly tell that they were thinking the same thing. Confirming his suspicion, their mother added, with just the right amount of judgment in her voice, “I assume this girl happened to be white?”

“So what? Everyone says my mark looks tribal.” Debbie held up her wrist to show off the chaos of intertwined swirls and shapes on her skin. “Mysterious and exotic.If Africa turns out ot be a bust, they also have deals for India and Malaysia.”

“I find the assumption that your soulmate must be on the continent of Africa deeply racist,” Laverne began, only to be interrupted by Debbie.

“No one said anything about must, but he might be, also, there are white people in Africa, Mom, get off your high horse.”

“Yes, I know that there are white people in Africa,” their mother said darkly. “Enough of this, Deborah. Finish school, get a job, then you can do whatever you want. In the meantime, perhaps you could learn from your brother’s example and focus on more practical pursuits first.”

Debbie glared at him.

“You know what, maybe you’re right,” she said after a beat, her tone telling Raymond that he would not like what was to come, “perhaps I should learn from his example, forget about finding my soulmate and instead date myself a hot white boy for a while, huh, Ray? Now where did you find Freddy again?”

“Not in Africa,” he replied, then quickly shoved more mashed potatoes into his mouth so he would be spared from taking part in the conversation.

***

The next morning, Monday at 9:23 a.m., Raymond sat at his desk, leafing through the file for the new case Captain Matthews had assigned to him. He was frowning at a crime scene photo: the body of a young man, dark skin, dark eyes open wide, on the pavement in a pool of his own blood - a stinker, his fellow detectives and his captain had decided, a random shooting in a terrible neighborhood, damn near unsolvable, which was why it was given to the least popular detective, aka Raymond Holt. “Black on black crime,” Matthews had said with a smirk, “Needs black on black arrest.”

This was nothing new, and Raymond, as always, was determined to prove himself by solving the case. 

So he stared at the dead man and did not think about how he was nearly twenty-seven years old - three years older than his mother had been when she met his father - nine years older than he had been when he first started looking for his soulmate. He equally did not think about the trailer for a documentary titled _Lifelong Search_ he had seen on television a few nights before. He was thinking about the case, only about the case.

Until the phone rang.

***

Eyes still glued to the body in the picture, Raymond picked up. He stated the number of his precinct, his rank and name. There was a second of silence on the other end. Hesitation. A soft intake of breath, the sound of it tickling Raymond’s ear, making him blink against the still of death in front of him. Then a young man’s voice.

“Good morning, Detective. My name is Kevin Cozner, I’m writing an article for the New Yorker and I was wondering whether you might have time to answer a few questions. The precinct’s receptionist connected me to you, she said you were available.”

Of course. Raymond Holt was always available for everything any one of his colleagues would call a pain in the ass.

And yet, this time, he was not annoyed. Quite the opposite.

“I am indeed available, Mister Cozner,” he replied, a little thrill running up his spine at the thought of talking to a journalist, not to mention one with such a charming voice. 

“Wonderful. I will try to be brief, Detective, as I am sure you have much more important matters to attend to.” 

Raymond glanced down at the picture of the dead man on his desk. Technically, he did.

“Thank you. I do have ongoing investigations that require my attention, however, I think what you do is important as well.” He had always admired journalists and there was something about Cozner’s voice, it sounded so fresh, soft and smooth. Like shaving cream in the morning. Deeply pleasant.

Cozner began to ask questions about police procedure. He was not researching a particular case, though the recent murder of a French tourist and its investigation was of interest to him. He had, however, already contacted the detectives handling the investigation. Now he was double-checking the general facts. 

Raymond felt strangely at ease talking to him. The questions were fairly basic. How much time did a detective usually spend in the courtroom during the trial? How did they prepare for that?

Raymond hummed, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Well, you need a lawsuit, of course.”

“Stop,” Cozner said, but he was laughing, the sound of it rippling across Raymond’s skin. A warm shiver ran up his spine. 

From the very beginning it was clear that the detectives at the other precinct had not treated Cozner with even the smallest amount of respect. This came as no surprise to Raymond, who, after all, spent most of his days surrounded by policemen.

Raymond desperately wanted to prove that he was not like them. He did what he could to coax that sound from Cozner again. That surprised intake of breath, followed by the delighted chuckle. 

“You certainly are something else, Detective Holt,” Cozner said after Raymond had mentioned that, for a while now, officers had been having problems with their cars being dismantled when patrolling some of New York City’s more dangerous neighborhoods.

“Of course, we’re searching for the perpetrators tirelessly,” he had punned.

“I am something else,” he said now, wondering what exactly he was doing, his fingers tightening around the telephone receiver. “Which is why I recently founded my own organization inside the NYPD.”

“Oh?” Cozner went, intrigued and perhaps wondering if this was a setup for another joke.

“Yes, AAGLNYCPA, the African-American Gay and Lesbian New York City Police Association.” He had said it. Now to wait for Cozner’s reaction.

There was that surprised intake of breath again, then Cozner spoke. He sounded awed.

“Goodness, that is not what I expected. How many members do you have?”

“As of now, I am president and the only member of the African-American Gay and Lesbian New York City Police Association.”

“I see. Still, it’s amazing that you did this.” Paper rustled. Raymond imagined Cozner flipping the pages of his notebook. When Cozner spoke again, his voice was soft and hesitant like it had been at the very beginning of the conversation. “As a matter of fact, I would be very interested in hearing more about this inspiring undertaking of yours. If you’re ever free, perhaps you’d agree to meet me for a drink sometime?”

“I’m free tonight,” Raymond replied instantly, eager to meet this man despite the voice in his head cautioning him to keep his expectations in check and reminding him of his decision to focus on his career. This was not about his soulmark, he told himself firmly. The topic had not even come up. 

“Wonderful.” Cozner sounded genuinely delighted, which in turn delighted Raymond more than he would have liked to admit. 

He jotted down _9 p.m., Shakesbeer_ and the address of the bar that, Cozner assured him, was better than its name suggested. It could not be, Raymond thought, because the name was _genius._

***

Raymond arrived at the bar ten minutes before their agreed upon time. He frequently did this - and had been told it was a cop habit - in order to get a feel for the place and the clientele before the date.

Although, of course, this was only a date in the sense that it was two people meeting at a previously agreed upon time and location in order to spend time together. Not a date in the romantic sense. Though there was the possibility--

No.

He was not going to think about that. He had made a decision.

Plus, he had never even seen the man.

***

The bar seemed to be a student hangout. It was definitely not a gay bar which had been fairly obvious from the name anyway. Raymond was not disappointed. He made his way past the groups of young people hanging around the entrance in small, loose clusters and stepped inside.

Cozner had told him he would bring a copy of the New Yorker and Raymond started to look around for a man carrying the magazine. It seemed he had not arrived yet, so Raymond picked a table that was close enough to the entrance to observe who was coming in while not being too exposed for his liking.

The people in the bar - there were quite a few of them, though it was a weeknight - were young, predominantly white, dressed casually. Raymond would stand out to Cozner, he thought. Sitting here in his suit and tie - he had come straight from work. 

If Cozner was even going to show up. Raymond glanced at his watch. 8:56. Four minutes to go. He hated tardiness. Then again, perhaps Cozner had already arrived, seen him, been disappointed and had dropped the magazine in the trash. This scenario, however, would imply that Cozner had come for a date, not a professional meeting, which was also still an option.

Whatever happened, Raymond told himself, he would not ask to see Cozner’s soulmark. 

At exactly 9:00 p.m., a man detached from a group of chatting young people by the bar and approached Raymond’s table. Raymond had noticed him shooting the odd glance in his direction for a couple of minutes now.

He was one of the few black people in the bar, his skin lighter than Raymond’s. Though he wore denim trousers and a leather jacket, Raymond found him quite handsome, if a little short. 

“Are you Detective Holt?” 

Raymond blinked. He was surprised and a little disappointed now. The voice did not match the one on the phone. It was too deep, a bit frayed at the edges, from smoking, he guessed.

“Yes,” he said.

The stranger had a very charming smile. “Kevin wanted me to tell you he’s gonna be a few more minutes. He is still going over some stuff with the editor in chief. He’s sorry and he understands if you can’t wait.”

Raymond shrugged. “It’s no problem, thank you for telling me,” he said. “Would you like to keep me company until he gets here?”

“Sorry, my girlfriend’s waiting over there.” He gestured to the group of his friends who had relocated to a table further back. Raymond nodded, disappointment increasing ever so slightly.

As the minutes ticked by, Raymond wondered if this was a waste of time. There was still the case, after all, and his decision to prioritize his career. What was he doing here?

At 9:12, just when he had made up his mind to walk over to Cozner’s handsome friend in order to excuse himself - he could always leave his number in case Cozner did want to follow up on AAGLNYCPA - he saw the man in question wave to someone at the entrance.

Raymond turned his head. A man had just walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered with a square jaw, decidedly not Raymond’s type, which was good he realized, because it finally allowed him to focus on what was important. 

Raymond breathed a sigh of relief. Which caught in his throat when the man stepped aside.

From behind the first newcomer emerged a young man carrying a rolled up magazine in one hand. He was as tall as the first one, but slender, long-limbed, elegant.

His mouth suddenly dry, Raymond reached for his drink without taking his eyes off Cozner, whose lips parted when he spotted him, face lighting up.

Raymond rose to meet Cozner for a handshake. His palms were soft and dry, the shake as firm as it was supposed to be. 

“I am so sorry, Detective, for making you wait this long.The editor in chief roped me into a discussion about semantics.” 

Raymond had not thought it possible but in person Cozner’s voice was even more pleasant than on the phone and his smile was breathtaking, a subtle quirk to his thin lips showing just a sliver of white teeth.

“There is no need to apologize,” he said because there was not. Already he felt he could have waited hours for this man and it would have been worth it. Raymond blinked, somewhat scandalized at himself. 

He glanced down at his hand, loosely wrapped around his drink, then over at Cozner’s. His pale fingers splayed on the dark tabletop. Raymond’s gaze wandered to the sleeve of his light blue button-down. He averted it quickly, remembering Debbie criticizing his habit to immediately inquire about the soulmark of any new man he met. 

_It’s rude and creepy,_ she had said.

 _It’s efficient,_ he had replied.

“So, about your organization,” Cozner began, prompting him to talk a bit about how AAGLNYCPA had come into existence. 

Like most things in his life so far, it had been an act of defiance, Raymond realized as they talked. But he was not bitter, just stubborn.

Cozner looked at him with such genuine interest and admiration that Raymond found himself wondering again what exactly this was. He knew exactly what he wanted it to be.

“Call me Raymond,” he said after what had felt like minutes into the conversation but turned out to have been more than an hour.

“Then you must call me Kevin,” Kevin replied, smiling that intoxicating smile of his. 

They talked a little about Kevin’s studies, classics, which Raymond found fascinating. He caught himself imagining Kevin’s fingertips tracing ancient Greek text and had to suppress a shiver, so he changed the topic quickly again. There was so much he wanted to know about this man. 

“About your interest in AAGLNYCPA…” Raymond paused, not quite sure how to continue. They had spoken about homosexualtiy in general terms. Kevin had not disclosed whether it affected him personally. 

Now he ducked his head, his cheeks coloring.

 _Ah,_ Raymond thought. His heart rate picked up. He wouldn’t push Kevin, certainly not here, but secretly he was overjoyed.

“I find it incredible that you are open about your sexuality in your workplace,” Kevin said, voice soft, “Especially considering your line of work.”

Raymond shrugged. He did not want to say, _I was already black, so I did not have much to lose._

Instead, he decided to joke about it.

“I think it was more shocking to them when I came out as black, which was almost unheard of in the NYPD.”

“Good God, you’re black?” Kevin asked, clutching at his chest in mock surprise. “I wish you’d said something sooner.”

For a moment, they grinned at each other, completely wrapped up in their stupid little bit. 

Kevin was the first to sober. “May I ask, how bad is it?”

Raymond felt the sudden urge to reach out and touch the other man’s hand. He didn’t quite know why. “It is what it is. Recently, my captain has taken to calling me Emily Dickinson.”

Disgust marred Kevin’s handsome face. He seemed speechless with outrage, so Raymond added quickly, “I like to think it is because I have the heart of a poet.”

“I don’t doubt that you do,” Kevin said. 

“Also, I _am_ a dick, at least in one sense of the word.” Raymond allowed himself a smile. “Some might even say in two.”

“A detective, certainly.” Kevin raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t know about the other meaning.”

“Hm. My ex-boyfriend might be able to explain.” This was dangerous territory, Raymond chastised himself. What was he thinking, bringing up Frederick?

Kevin, however, seemed intrigued. He leaned closer and said, “Oh? Please elaborate.”

So he gave a quick summary of the Frederick-affair, closing with the tale of how he had tipped a wooden duck into the East River and never told his boyfriend. It made Kevin laugh, which meant it was more than worth it, as Kevin’s chuckles felt to Raymond like a refreshing spring shower on his bare skin. 

He liked this man. He really did.

“You said your soulmark was a math problem?” Kevin said suddenly, piercing blue eyes meeting Raymond’s. “May I see it?”

Startled, Raymond wrapped a hand around his left forearm, the fabric of his suit stiff like armor under his palm. 

“I’m sorry, that was too forward--”

“No, it’s fine,” Raymond cut off Kevin’s flustered apology. Because it was fine. He wanted to show Kevin.

He peeled back his sleeves and stretched his arm across the table, fingers extended towards Kevin. It was strange, he thought, how vulnerable he felt and yet, at the same time, somehow, safe.

Kevin leaned in, his brow furrowing as he studied the mark.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he whispered, more to himself than Raymond. “It’s so beautiful.”

A moment of stillness. Kevin’s fingertips hovering over the inside of Raymond’s forearm. A soft intake of breath, then Kevin’s gaze flicked up, splinters of light embedded in his irises. “The solution,” he exhaled, brow creased, “is it around 69?”

Deeply impressed, Raymond nodded. 

“69.3285631.”

“Oh,” Kevin said, color draining from his face. “Oh. I’m sorry. Please excuse me.”

With that he stood abruptly, so abruptly, his chair toppled over in fact and he stumbled past it, paying neither the fallen piece of furniture nor the people around him any attention.

Raymond, who had no idea what had happened - but who somehow also knew exactly what had happened -, gave chase because he was a detective and that was what he did.

***

He found Kevin outside, a little off to the side, keeping his distance from everyone else, back pressed hard against the brick wall of the bar, breathing heavily.

Raymond was instantly worried that he was having a panic-attack of some kind and tried to remember what one was supposed to do in that event. Call an ambulance, perhaps, but that would require going back inside to use the phone.

He walked up to Kevin instead and very gently put a hand on his shoulder. Kevin had been hanging his head, right arm cradled against his chest. Now he looked up at Raymond and slowly relaxed, extending his arm while pulling back the sleeve, opening up.

The weird thing was. Raymond did not have to look to know.

He did anyway because Kevin wanted him to.

69.3285631 in a warm, rich copper, shimmering on Kevin’s pale skin. Smiling, Raymond brushed his thumb along the neat row of numbers, up to the thrum of Kevin’s pulse.

“Are you alright?” Raymond asked.

“Yes, I’m sorry for my behavior. It was just… a bit much.” Taking a step closer, Kevin looked into his eyes.

“I understand.” Although to Raymond it felt like just the right amount. Everything felt right, especially Kevin’s skin against his.

“What do we do now?” Kevin asked, brow furrowed as though faced with another math problem.

Raymond gave this some consideration. “I think,” he said earnestly, “we should go back inside and pay our bill.”

When he smiled, Kevin’s entire face lit up and so did something inside Raymond. He couldn’t help smiling back.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Kevin said as he slipped his hand into Raymond’s and interlaced their fingers. “But I suppose we have time to figure out everything else.”

Breathing in the cool night air, Raymond soaked in Kevin’s touch. For the first time in his life, he felt like there was no fight to win, no work to do, nothing to prove and no rush.

“Yes,” he said, “we do.”


End file.
